


I’ll be home for Christmas

by Catharrington



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Billy Hargrove Is Bad at Feelings, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Party, Drunken Confessions, Found Family, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post Season 2, Slow Burn, Steve Harrington is a Sweetheart, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:40:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28145493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catharrington/pseuds/Catharrington
Summary: ‘At the kitchen’s doorway, another head comes out. Steve Harrington standing with his own dish cloth laid over his shoulder. A knitted Christmas sweater pushed up at the sleeves over his elbows and his arms crossed over his chest. He’s got a grin like he knows something Billy doesn’t. And it all looks so damn handsome on him.’Billy doesn’t want to tag along with Max and her nerd Christmas party. He gets proven how dumb he would have been to miss it.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 7
Kudos: 52
Collections: Harringrove Holiday Exchange 2020





	I’ll be home for Christmas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [qlito](https://archiveofourown.org/users/qlito/gifts).



> I’m so sorry that in the prompt you asked for some messy hand jobs and I delivered this sappy Christmas musical, I hope you still enjoy it!!! And have yourself a merry little Christmas ❤️💚❤️
> 
> [Check out the moodboard I made for this at my tumblr!](%E2%80%9C)

Call him a cliche, call him a liar, but Billy doesn’t want to tag along with Max to the whole party’s stupid Christmas party. Max, with all her flaming red-head of vengeance, had followed him around until he was all but forced to go. Without the bat, of course, but just as prickly. Her insistence like a gun to his head. 

She stands in doorway a week before Christmas wearing an ugly striped sweater and her hands on her hips. She’s repeating herself: “Because, asshole, it’s going to be your chance to apologize to my friends. To pull the stick out your ass!”

“Ain’t going,” he mutters. Might as well be talking to a wall. 

Max rolls her eyes, purses her lips as she says, “you’ve already gotten told to take me. So you’re fucking going, alright?!”

Billy’s got a bad taste in his mouth as she rams that shit down his throat. She knows he doesn’t like being told what to do, yet here she stands in his door way. 

The attempt he gave trying to break up Max and Lucas before it even got started, he stands by that. Stands by protecting her from the cruel words and fists Neil would have for her if she brought a colored boy home. Stands by protecting her from Steve, his babysitters club, and all the secrets they hide. 

He knows he should regret their first week in Hawkins more than just feeling bad he gave the pretty boy a pretty split lip. 

All he wants to protect in his own way. In the way he knows how. 

But she’s told him once, in the Camero when he had a fresh purpling black-eye, that he can’t protect her from being a kid. From making her own choices. And he isn’t going to be there forever. Max is going to be alone one day, she needs to fall on her face. 

Billy might have a little separation anxiety, he’s realized. Doesn’t like the idea of Max being alone at all. He’s spent so long doing nothing but looking out for her, the idea that she could go into the world alone— means that he’s alone. And he doesn’t want that. Not again. 

“Don’t let Susan hear you using those filthy words, little lady,” he drawls in an insincere sneer, “she’ll give you a real disappointed look.” 

And that come back sounds a lot like a surrender, because it is. 

He goes to the party. Shows up with a six pack of beer clinking around in the back of the Camaro. Talked the lady at the drug-store counter all nice and sweet how it’s a present for his father, didn’t give her a chance to card him with how brilliant his smile was. 

He walks through the Byers’ doorway with his hands up. A smile on his face that’s too shark-like for the way he says “I’m sorry.” Just flat. Making eye contact with Lucas before turning around to face the other children. All standing in a group with matching crossed arms. 

“Look, I’m sorry I was an ass,” Billy says it with a shrug. His jacket rustling where he moves it with his hands in his pockets. “In my defense: keeping secrets don’t make friends.” And he winks at the group. Sending their little cheeks mistletoe berry red. 

Billy spins to examine the house as they all turn to whisper in hushed rushing. It’s strange being back. But in the sunlight of the fading afternoon, it doesn’t look bad. Doesn’t look spooky, like it did that night. Might even look rustic or cozy. The Byers’ got mismatched furniture set up for more sitting room than the place usually must have. 

The coffee table is cleared of all clutter, gone are all the quickly sketched tunnels of the upside down, and instead covered with a lacy table runner. There’s a porcelain Santa riding a sleigh and a whole line of reindeer sitting on top. One of the deer is missing their front left leg. The Santa’s red hat is chipped to white at it’s curvy bend. 

It all screams well loved, well used. Nothing left or forgotten. Just right where it should be. 

Billy balls his hands deep into his pockets. Tries not to touch anything. 

Miss. Byers is standing in the entrance of the kitchen with a dish towel in her hands, whooshing it back and forth while she examines him. He turns to her with a candy sweet grin, but she’s already turned her focus to the kids. Watching how the children grumble but eventually accept Billy’s place in the house. 

Billy shuffles one boot to the other, watching as well how the whole group seems to communicate with just a couple choice words. All the kids letting the past month go with only a little huffing and puffing. Miss. Byers’ smile getting ever wider as she notices the acceptance. 

She keeps smiling softly, balling the towel in one hand, while walking up and holding out the other in an offer. 

“Miss. Byers,” Billy drags the words out as cordial as he can. Laying his hand into hers firm but with a soft squeeze. 

“Call me Joyce,” she insists. 

“Yes, ma’am. Names Billy,” he tightens his smile. Trying to keep his knee jerk reactions down. 

“Oh, I know,” she laughs, “I’ve heard a lot about you. And I don’t care what the kids say— I really like your hair! Very cool!”

Billy shakes his head a little, makes his curls bounce, trying as best he can to keep his ego out of it. He can hear Max screeching already that the chit-chatting means nothing. 

From behind Joyce, at the kitchen’s doorway, another head comes out. Steve Harrington standing with his own dish cloth laid over his shoulder. A knitted Christmas sweater pushed up at the sleeves over his elbows and his arms crossed over his chest. He’s got a grin like he knows something Billy doesn’t. And it all looks so damn handsome on him. 

“Don’t encourage him, Joyce, he just got here. The party’s still trying to make his life hard,” Steve says with that same charm, that same easy commanding tone that caught Billy’s attention in the first place. 

Joyce touches Billy’s arm softly a couple times in a mock comforting pat, jars him awake from the way he must be standing like a damn idiot with his mouth hanging open watching Steve, then winks at him. “Of course,” she laughs, “the party is very exclusive. Good luck, Billy,” and the gentle way she says his name makes his stomach clench even more. 

Billy brushes a hand past his curled hair to ruffle the feelings off. To get a devil may care attitude back into his stance. 

He’s wearing an unbuttoned flannel over his thermal long sleeve, one that hasn’t been changed off-white over time yet. The layers give him warmth, he’s realized, in the Indiana winters. 

There’s a fine layer of snow outside already and the radio in the Camaro already called for another couple inches by morning. Billy shoves his hands deep into the pockets of his thin jacket. 

But inside, inside the Byers small house in the middle of fucking nowhere, it’s warm. It’s a burning fire playing over the static of the TV screen. It’s a platter of sugar cookies left sitting out on the coffee table already half snatched up. It’s the smell of honey ham currently baking and surrounding Steve Harrington’s whole shape as he lingers. Just lingers. Watching Billy from under this thick, dark lashes. 

Billy wants to follow Joyce as she turns to go back towards the kitchen, into that swirling warmth. Steve has a small shy smile on his face, coy. And a blush on his cheeks. But that might just be from the stove top cooking. 

“Billy, you can sit in the living room, honey. Dinner will be ready soon.” She turns to look between Steve’s playful blush and Billy’s puppy dog eyes. “Well, as soon as Steve gets finished primping his hair and worrying about his sweater looking ‘too much, Joyce?’” 

Steve makes a high pitched squeaking noise, his shoulders flying up to almost hit his ears. “What?” He hissed, “on what planet did I say that?!” 

Joyce laughed, holding her hands up in surrender. Before nudging him with her chin in the air back towards the cooking ham. 

Steve huffs in annoyance, still hugging himself, and turns to follow without looking at Billy again. 

And Billy’s floored. He feels like his boots have melted to the ground like marshmallows onto hot chocolate. He can’t see anything other than that embarrassed squeak floating through the air like a word bubble in a comic book. 

Billy’s seen Steve sweating, seen him bleeding, and he’s seen him angry and fuming and protective. He has never seen him embarrassed. Or comfortable enough to take a quip on the chin that easy. 

The first of December, Billy sucked up his ego and his own busted nose to apologize to Steve. He did it on the strip mall the arcade is on while dropping off Max to join up with Steve’s car load of children. 

He walked up to the over hanging metal roof that was already decorated with dripping icicle lights. Strobing up and down, up and down, as Steve stood there with his face in a tight grimace. Waiting on Billy to spit his words out. 

And when he did, it wasn’t the fantastic thing he had been hyping it to be. Had been hoping it would be. 

No, Steve just shrugged, smiling out the side of his mouth with a little shadow of the cockiness King Steve was supposed to have. Said he would have done the same thing. He didn’t blame Billy. And then said he was just glad Billy stoped acting like a ‘psycho-freak’ towards the kids. 

Billy didn’t know how to reply. His whole head was swimming. He wished, at first, that Steve didn’t accept his apology and instead took a swing. At least Billy would know how to reply to that. 

No, Steve smiles at him. And Billy said some stupid shit about still being a jerk when he wants to be before stomping off. 

Now for weeks, Billy’s been following Max around. Being the nice older brother, being exactly what she had threatened his family jewels about. 

But in more ways than one, and especially in this night in this old house, Billy sure feels like he’s following Steve around. 

He watches that head of brown hair bounce back into the kitchen. 

Feels like a candy cane sharpened and stuck in his gut. 

Billy sighs out heavy, rolling his eyes. Shuffling where he’s standing still in his boots. He notices then the couch of children that have been watching him. They all spin to pretend they haven’t, except for Max. Who simply gave him a glare back. 

“Hey, nerds,” Billy calls out. Taking another quick glance around the living room. “Want to see y’all’s Christmas presents from old Saint Nick?

Max scoffs, she already knows. But the boys around her all have their unique way of replying. Perking up and shutting down. 

“Presents?” Dustin parrots back, his lips pulling back in a grin with no teeth to display. 

Mike rolls his eyes, grumbles something about it snowing outside. Billy doesn’t care if he gets the brat’s sweater all wet with snow. Aren’t kids supposed to enjoy being outside in the snow, anyways. 

“Old Saint Nick?” Lucas shutters as he looks between Max and Billy. Trying to figure out if it’s a joke. 

“Old Saint Nick?” The brown haired girl tucked in the side of the couch, who always seems to be hanging off Mike’s shoulder but no ones ever introduced her to Billy, repeats in a sparkly tone. A playful and childish turn up to her voice. 

Billy smiles back to her, a more creepy leering thing than her cute one. “Yeah, the big red guy. Got it out in the sled right now for ya.” 

They all turn to Max, who only rolls her eyes again before nodding. Like she’s some fact checker or Billy-translator. That somehow makes Billy feel a little better, a little more part of the group. If only in a weird way, still some sort of way. 

“Sure,” Will speaks up, his coconut shaped head turning to show them all his shy smile. He’s a small kid, skinner even than Lucas and he’s all just lanky arms he hasn’t grown into. He looks like the small version of Joyce herself, and he’s Billy’s favorite by far. 

“There’s the Christmas spirit,” Billy jingles his keys as he walks towards the door. 

Outside, Mike wasn’t making shit up. It was truly snowing very lightly but still relentlessly. It was beautiful, Billy thought, like slow motion fluffy rain you can catch on the tip of your tongue. 

By the time December 24th rolled around, it had snowed a couple times in Hawkins Indiana. The first night Billy watched it out his window. Remembering the way Jimmy Stewart looked running down the street shouting at the top of his lungs, all the mess of it clinging to his long jacket and hat. Billy remembered scenes of that film like loose change memories from all those years ago he would watch Christmas movies with his mother in California. 

That first morning of snow, he had balled snow from the top of the Camaro into his palms and whipped Max in the back of the head with it. She screamed, then rolled her own ammo to fight back. 

They covered themselves in snow, Susan yelling at them from the open door to not be late for school, before finally sinking into the car. Billy didn’t even complain about the wet shoes in the floor boards of the Camaro. Max was grinning ear to ear with the ends of her hair gone frizzy and a slight shade darker than usual. 

The next morning, Billy found a knitted scarf and hat that matched the one Max pulled out her storage winter items. Susan’s knitting basket looking obviously less filled by the living room chair. 

He wore that scarf all the time. Slightly because it felt good to have the gift from family, mostly because it was cold enough to freeze his balls outside and thin jackets didn’t do the job. 

Jogging outside the Byers’ house, he clutched that scarf around his neck a little tighter as he lead the group out into the snow. Yanking his trunk open to get his fist around the top of his gift as quick as he could. 

The kids lingered at the end of the steps, right where the porch ended. Max was hissing something to them that she shut up about before he got back. But Billy didn’t miss the way the kids eyes lit up as he stood at the bottom step and held it out for them.

“One nerd, one beer,” he announced, shaking the cardboard container so the glass bottles shook. 

“Holy shit,” Dustin lisped in an awe Billy immediately let go straight to his head. “You're like 17, how the hell did you get this?”

“Santa doesn’t share his secrets, kiddos,” Billy sang with a wink. 

Max made a fake gag voice, but she was the first to reach out and pluck two bottles from the six pack. She passed one to the brown haired girl and held the other in her tight fist. “Don’t inflate his ballooned ego, guys,” she ordered, twisting off the screw top with the bottom of her shirt easily. 

Billy held out the cardboard so the rest of the kids in a half circle around him could clatter their mitten covered hands to get their own bottles. 

The boys all grumbled as they followed her lead and took their own glass bottles out with a chorus of clinking. They all-side eyed Max as they did their best attempt to twist off the top without too much fuss. 

Billy smirked ear to ear as they totally didn’t wince from the sound of the beer hissing as it meets the cold December air. He let the cardboard drop to the banister of the porch. “Any of you nerds try one before?” He asks. Flicking an eye towards Max’s mouth already open in reply before he ads, “any one but my sister?”

Max blows a breath of cold air out the side of her mouth. The cloud heavy and white in the frost. Her cheeks blush a little deeper. 

“Yeah,” Mike speaks up, his nose wrinkled close to the bottle’s top. “Stole one from Nancy and her friends at a girls-only sleepover. It was kinda gross.” 

“Yeah,” Lucas draws out next to him, his face twisting up into a matching sneer, “It was kinda gross, wasn’t it?” 

“I told you guys it was because we stole a warm beer, in a can! They taste much better in bottles and cold,” Dustin said very matter of factly. 

It made Billy smile a little. “Sure you ain’t had this before then, runt pack. This brand ain’t the cheep shit ice princess’ friends could sneak off from a party. Go ahead and try it.” 

They seemed hesitant, and they all were waiting before someone else drank. It was sweet. 

Max rolled her eyes before lifting her bottle, muttering out a small, “Merry Christmas,” before taking a swig. 

The group of boys all did the same at the same time. Their chanting tugged a bit at Billy’s heart, making his chest feel painfully full from his last minute gift bringing them together into a proper toast. Thank god the feeling evaporated with a rude laugher as he watched half the kids sputter out around their mouth full of beer. 

Mike powdered it down; more than Billy thought he would. While Dustin’s and Lucas’ drinks nearly dribbled over their jackets. Billy’s thankful they didn’t, that would be a thing to explain to Joyce. 

Max shriveled her whole face like she was sucking on something sour. Her brunette friend, who was tucked right next to her arm, did the same thing. They both parted their lips with a sharp inhale, before cackling to themselves. 

Will on the other hand. The quiet little baby-Byers Billy had been calling him in his head. The kid who seemed mute he was so nervous to talk, he pursed his lips through the flavor of the first swig before taking another one. 

Billy couldn’t help the fond smile grace over his lips as he watched him. 

“This is just as gross as the other one,” Mike whined out. Half towards Dustin who was so insistent on his science; and half towards Billy who gave him the thing. The present. 

Billy just shrugged, enjoying the way they all looked towards him with bitter faces. All chubby cheeks pinched across something sour, he basked in it like a funny joke that landed. And funnier even, the way they all kept taking more sips after sip only to have the same reaction. 

Mike was the first one to give up on the thing, to purse his lips around the bitter rim of the glass one last time before dropping it back into the cardboard case. 

“Fucking rank,” he grumbled out. 

Billy half wanted to yell at him for his language choice, half got lost in his head dreaming about the way Steve sure as hell would have yelled at Mike for his language choice. 

Dustin followed right behind, with Lucas afterwards. They filled the cardboard right back up with their lightly sipped on beers. And Billy would be offended in the money he just waisted if he wasn’t expecting that reaction already. 

Max held onto hers, with a fierce determination to take more mouthfuls. She choked it down farther, got half the bottle. Wincing the whole way. 

The way it reminded Billy of himself bit down like a reindeer chomping on his heart. Nibbling the edges to make them bleed out that Christmas spirit red. 

Or maybe, she was thinking to herself if Billy can do it so can she. If he can stumble home drunk in the middle of the night, crawling through the window of his bedroom right next to hers. Making almost no noise with practice. But his breath when he wakes up to argue over the bathroom can’t be hidden quite as well. 

If Billy can stomach it, then she’ll be strong enough to stomach it as well. 

And Billy wishes he could walk back inside the Byers’ house and eat some of those sugar cookies to get the flavor of disappointment out of his mouth. 

She doesn’t make it to the bottom, however, because her little brunette friend timidly pushes her bottle into Max’s side. Not wanting to return it as rudely as the others, but for sure not finishing it. And Max, with a rueful sigh, takes both of them and drops them back into the cardboard. 

“Thanks, Billy,” she says, and in her red cheeks turned even redder by the December’s cold it seems she really means it. 

It’s strange, Max watching Billy with this great fondness. It’s as if the past years of him allowing the anger he’s felt up to his neck to choke him into something he’s not never happened. Back to smiles shared over a new trick on a skateboard. 

“Thanks, Billy,” the brunette girl at Max’s arm parrots her with a knowing smile. 

Max shivers, rubbing her hands together before pointing them over her shoulder, “Let’s go, El,” she suggests. 

When El follows she waves at Billy, and the rest of the nerd pack follow in behind. 

All except for Will, who in his skinny little corduroy jacket he had slipped on and his thread bare gloves, still clutches to the bottle of his beer. His Christmas gift. 

He takes another long gulp off the neck before turning to Billy with a soft smile. “I don’t think it’s that bad,” he says. 

Billy shifts his weight from one foot to the next. He shoots Will an equal smile, one with much more teeth from his wolfish mouth. He pulls out his pack of smokes from his inner jacket pocket, holding the half crumbled white rectangle before taking one out. 

Will nods. Steps closer to Billy as he flicks the flame of his lighter to burn the tip. Turns his face an orange color lit from the bottom as he watches Will settle on the other side of the porch banisters. 

The span of the top step between them. Their backs to the wooden support beams. 

Billy pulls the smoke from his mouth and blows it off into the yard before he speaks. “I’m glad one of y’all enjoy a good brew when given one.” 

Will shrugs. Holds the beer close to his face so he’s speaking a song into the bottle. “It just tastes really different, but not so bad.” The he adds, with a slight sadness in his high pitched voice, “people shouldn’t always consider what’s bad different. Or gross.” 

Billy watches him over the fog casted by his smoke. Now limp in his hand. Hanging by his side. His blue eyes fixed on Will as he seems to get lost in his own thoughts. 

“Got something on your mind there, little guy?” Billy jabs at him. His hand pulling up in a weak motion to continue. 

“Just that,” Will muttered. 

Billy let his head fall back on the old wood of the porch banister. Turned it to the side to slightly see inside the house. 

Joyce had pulled back the curtains that view into the living room, letting the sparse traffic that come by their dirt road see the Christmas tree. All it’s pretty lights lit up red and green for the season. 

The window is smeared with the melted snow clinging to it. Making the lights have a strobe affect, reminds Billy of the one time he tried mushrooms back in California. 

Inside, he can see the living room. See the kids back on the couch and fighting over the cookies. He can see the way Steve marches in from the kitchen, that damn towel still hung over his shoulder. Another tray of cookies on his hands he’s using to appease the battle. His cute annoyed grimace, matched with furrowed brows and hands on his hips, turns almost instantly into a smile as pudgy hands scramble for more sugar. 

Billy’s chest feels tighter. The snow on his jacket feels a lot heavier. Outside is cold, but inside the fire is so inviting. 

Lifts his smoke back to his face and draws it so hard he hollows out his cheeks. 

Will’s watching him over the top of his beer bottle, takes another long drink from it, before he chokes a bit on the liquid. He sputters, and Billy’s torn between laughing at him and walking over to slap a hand on his back to help. 

Neither boy notices Steve come to the door of the porch until he’s already pushing it open. 

Steve stands in the doorway, his socked feet and knitted sweater trying not to get into the snow as much as possible. There’s a wave of warm air that follows him. Billy tries not to lean towards it too much.

“Are you killing Will out here?” He speaks out the side of his mouth in annoyance, but he’s got a smirk that means sarcasm. 

“Because as the babysitter right now, any dead bodies turning up would look really bad for my brand?” 

Billy really, really likes this look on him. 

Billy swipes his tongue over his lips before replying, “just putting some hair on the kid’s scrawny chest is all— that okay with you, babysitter?” 

“Mmmhh,” Steve slides his eyes from Billy back over to Will. He seems to notice just now that he’s holding his gift, the glass beer bottle. 

His smirk melts into a liquid soft smile, he reaches to close the door behind him, stepping out with his socks onto the porch still flurrying with snow fall. “You actually like that dark shit?” He pokes an inquiring finger towards Will. 

And the kid gives a jolt under Steve’s full attention, his cheeks already patchy with cold flush red. 

“Yeah,” he mumbles with a croaky voice, “yeah, it’s umm— it’s good!” 

Steve crosses his arms over his chest as he comes closer. Standing still a head taller than Will, looking down at him as he gets close. 

It’s easy to notice the way Will’s throat works through a swallow, trying to keep the spit out his mouth. Billy knows all too well what standing that close to Steve Harrington can do to a boy. Especially when he’s smiling like that, arms wrapped around his soft sweater wrapped around his thin waist, dark brown hair catching snow as it falls. 

Billy huffs out the end of his smoke, throwing it down to stomp it out on the porch. 

“Gonna tell on us, pretty boy?” He drawls the mean nick name out, flicks his eyes from Will back to Steve to make sure it lands. 

Shaking his head, Steve gently lifts a hand to reach for Will’s bottle. “Nah,” he breaths, breath smoke in the cold, “you know I’m good for it, Hargrove.” Then he lifts the bottle to his own lips, ignoring— or maybe enjoying, the largeness to Will’s sparkly eyes. 

But he takes the bottle away with a huff, turning it upside down to show how empty the kid had left it. “Dang,” he laughs. 

“There’s lots more,” Will offers, pointing towards the cardboard left filled to the brim with more bottles. The only space left open from the one in Steve’s hand. “None of the party really likes it, so they left theirs.” 

Slender fingers wrap around the neck of a bottle to lift it from the cardboard. Bringing the glossy tip to his pretty lips, Steve closes his eyes as he takes a long chug of the dark beer. Billy watches his throat working up and down, slender muscles and perky Adam’s apple. His dark moles dotted along pale skin moving like snowflakes.

Steve pops off the bottle with a sharp intake of breath, his face scrunched up into a grimace at the bitter taste. 

“Wow, Hargrove, chest hair for sure,” he laughed through a groggy breath. 

His nose was scrunched like a bunny, a snow bunny. Billy almost didn’t hear him speaking if he wasn’t watching his lips move. 

“What can I say, I ain’t chicken,” Billy spoke back maybe too angry. Maybe to defensive. He shoved his hands in his denim jacket as he spoke. Trying to stop himself from reaching out and feeling the way those snowflakes melt against Steve’s warm sweater. 

“I’ve got to get back. Finish this for me,” he passes the bottle down towards Will, replacing the empty with one now half filled. 

Will takes it like some kinda holy grail, some kinda glittery ornament fragile in his hands. Clutches it to his chest while blinking those big eyes up at Steve. 

“Just,” then Steve presses his finger to his lips, and winks one brown eye, “don’t get too sloshed before the dinner.” 

Will nodded his head. 

Then, with a shiver, Steve put his arms around his middle again and half jogged back towards the door. The porch wasn’t long. It was cute to watch his hair bounce as he went. 

Over his shoulder, with the door open, Steve paused to turn back to Billy. “You’re staying for the food?” He asks with a breathy tone to his voice. Question half floaty, and half a demand. As if he couldn’t decide what he wanted to come off as. 

Billy knew no matter what his intentions: it made him feel like a dog caught with the Christmas ham in his mouth. Made him feel seen, in a soft underbelly sort of way. 

He growled at the feeling. At the question. Wanted to bite down on that ham. “Damn, I already got dragged here, Harrington, might as well scarf the food!” He cackled. 

And despite himself, despite the cruelty Billy used. Steve brought back up that smirk for him. 

“Yeah,” Steve nodded, “you are here.” Then he turned to disappear back into another gust of hot air inside. 

Next to him, Will lifted the bottle to take a long drink from its glossy mouth. Closed his eyes as he swallowed the harsh brew down. Sharp gulps turned into a choking, sputtering mess, that Billy recognized before he even turned away from longingly watching the front door. 

Billy watches him with a bitterness in his face, not fully ready to be the guy to smack choking kid on the back. Thankfully he didn’t have to, and Will recovered with only a short gasping breath. Bending forward to let the beer bottle clang back along the others, it’s glass empty now. 

“Impressive, Byers,” Billy says, his lips turning up on the sides as Will selects another open beer. “Didn’t think out of all the pipsqueaks you’d be the one to hang.”

Shaking his head, that weird coconut hair moving all the snow off of it, Will shrugged. “Me neither,” his voice took on an angry tone, that Billy might have been worried about if it wasn’t so damn slurred, “but I guess there’s a fucking lot those gags don’t get.” 

Billy fished out another smoke, looking for something to do with his shivering cold hands. “Yeah, and what’s that, little man? Wanna tell me?” 

“Guess I could tell you— only because you’re the same. The same dumb problems and thoughts.” He spat the word ‘same’ like a shot from a gun, like it was accusatory. 

Opening his mouth to reply, to deny, Billy can’t get a word out before Will starts again. 

“Like, you’d do anything he fuckin’ said— ya’know? ‘You want the moon? Just say the word and I'll throw a lasso around it and pull it down.’ But he doesn’t even notice!” Will laughed to himself, taking another pause for a drink, and this time he does spill some of it down his shirt. Damn. 

“Byers—,” Billy tries with a wave of his burning smoke, gets cut off again. 

“He doesn’t even care, that he’s all you think about.” Will motioned towards the door, movements obviously sloppy and Billy’s seriously worried he’s got the kid drunk. 

Will notices his dumb look behind his cigarette, his wide eyes, and sputters out a grimacing laugh. “Steve!” He clarifies with a wave of his beer bottle, “It’s Steve with all his face! His hair is so fluffy, and soft! And— and his pretty eyes are the colors of chocolate Hershey’s candy, what does that even mean?

“But mostly... the way he’s always so nice even if he’s tired. How his hugs are so perfect and warm even if they are short.” He stops himself with a pathetic whimpering thing, crawling up his throat that he pushes back down with a last long swing of beer. 

And Billy’s seen that before. He’s done that before. Will’s way to fucking young for that shit. 

He steps forward the short distance between them to take the glass from Will’s shaky hand. Before he shivers so hard in the cold he drops it. Billy let’s it fall into the cardboard with the others, then wraps his arms around Will’s scrawny shoulders. 

They shook as he held on, layers of fabric shifting almost painfully around his elbows. His denim jacket rough against the softness of Will’s courdoury one. 

Little hands fisted into the sides of Billy’s jacket. Hold rough on the denim even as the buttons dug into his palms. 

“Why...,” Will’s voice is muffled against Billy’s chest, “why is it so hard?” 

Billy growls out lowly, words swimming up in his throat he wishes he could have told himself back when he was this old. Back when he first realized he lingered too long, thought too hard, acted too gay to be his father’s son. 

He moves to hold Will out at arms length, leveling his cherry red face and puffy eyes with a well practiced glare. “Don’t make it hard,” Billy orders, “don’t say anything. To anyone. This conversation never happened? Hey, get me, kid?” 

Will nods slowly, his mind swimming in a shallow pool of beer making it hard to see. Hard to hear anything. But he nods. And his little hands unravel from Billy’s jacket. “Yeah, okay,” he shivers. 

“Okay,” Billy pats his shoulder. Stands up straight. “We need to get some water in you before dinner. Don’t want Harrington nagging on me like some mom over you.”

Will, through a pathetic sobbing laugh, points out the path leading around back to the kitchen. The steps up to the back porch haven’t been cleaned off. And where Billy’s boots are easy through the deeper snow, Will’s sneakers disappear. 

Billy holds his hand out as they slowly take the steps. Will’s shaky hand feels a lot like how a bother’s supposed to be, safe inside his bigger, stronger hand. Like Billy had any say in the matter of protecting him. 

They slip into the back door and Steve doesn’t need words to know what they are doing. He take down a glass from an upper cabinet before filling it to the brim. 

The timid surface of the water wavered as Will held it close to his mouth. He hesitantly glanced to Billy. 

“The whole glass,” he ordered, crossing his arms. 

And Will does. Turning the glass upside down as he’s finished. Steve takes it with a smile before filling it back up. 

When Joyce comes back in to get the last arm full of dishes for dinner, they’re standing around casually. Will holds up the last bowl, a mixing bowl filled to the top with lumpy mashed potatoes, with a smile on his face that’s only a little lopsided and a little flushed. 

“Dinner?” He asked cutely. 

Joyce fidgeted with putting her hands on her hips or crossing them over her stomach. She settled with taking the bowl while lifting one dark eyebrow up in question at the three boys. “I was about to send Steve out for you, but it seems he beat me to it?” 

Billy talks the same time Steve does, their words overlapping:

“Yeah, Joyce, I just had them come round the back to help out!”

“Sorry ‘bout the floors, Miss. Byers. I’ll grab a mop if ya want?” 

Steve turned to lock Billy with a pointed glare, lips pursing like a cute duck. His thick brows knitted together into an annoyed little grimace. And all it did was make Billy’s smile he had painted on for Joyce even larger. Turned the fake smile he had practiced so well for so long into something more real. 

“That’s right, pretty boy,” his words are flirty, and he enjoys watching the way it makes a pink blush crawl up Steve’s neck. The way it makes him even more annoyed looking, if that were possible. “Hope we helped out?” 

“Yeah, yeah,” he sputters, “I mean thank you, for coming and helping.” His eyes flutter down to the floor, his glare doesn’t stop as it digs into the tiles. 

Billy rocks back on his heels, his hands slide down the front of his jacket before he’s shoving them back in to the pockets. “Anytime,” he breaths. 

And he can’t help but stare down Steve. Pleading with the boy too look up again. That maybe this time if Steve saw his smile it wasn’t fake. It wasn’t something a predator would wear. It would be an actual smile. Something billy is that great at, but he’s trying. And maybe, if Steve saw that on him; then Steve would wear something genuine like that as well. 

There’s the smell of lovingly made dinner in the air. The whole kitchen is warm with it. And billy knows his hair is frizzy. But he still wants Steve to look up at him. 

“Let’s go eat then!” Joyce says in her Christmas jingle bell voice. Leading Will by his shoulder out the kitchen door. 

Steve glances up for a second. His grimace turned into more of a wince. His long pretty fingers working his sweater’s sleeves back down to his wrists. Billy watches as they work. 

“After you,” Billy points to the door.

Steve chuckles nervously as he follows. Quirking his shoulder as he brushes by Billy to follow after Will and Joyce. 

Billy spends the whole damn dinner thinking about Steve’s nervous blush. If he’s right in reading that, nervousness in the way he acted. In what Joyce had said earlier. 

And secondly he thinks about how good the ham turned out. Spends the whole dinner with a fork half hanging out his mouth as all the ramblings of the kids pass right over his head. 

He doesn’t even mind that Jonathan and Nancy had come out from his cave of a bedroom to join the small table. Sitting right next to Steve on their side of the table, Billy on the other. While the other side was a line of children sitting elbow to elbow. Knocking each other as they passed the bread. 

The TV behind them was still playing that Yule log, soft caroling in the background of the cracking fire. 

Even as all the food was eaten, plates laid dirty and bare, the conversation kept up. Billy didn’t truly tune back in until Nancy said something about a piano. 

“Oh yeah,” Jonathan spoke up with his timid mousy voice, stroking along his chin. “I can pull out my keyboard. If you really know how to play, that is?”

“If I really know how to play,” Steve repeated his words in a jingle. “Fuck off, I play better than you.” 

“Language!” Joyce swirled out a laugh as he swirled her glass of wine around. 

“Please Steve?” Nancy asked him again. Her big, bug eyes blinking a mile a minute. “For me?” 

And Steve’s walls crumbled like a snowball slamming into the back of a kid’s head. All at once, with a groan of pain. 

“One song,” he insisted. 

Billy didn’t at first go with the rest of the group as they all sprang up to follow Jonathan fetching the keyboard. His skinny arms working the long plastic down the hallway with only slight effort. 

As they all set up, clicking the legs into place next to the coffee table with that little runner and Santa figurine, Billy gravitated towards the entry way. Towards his denim jacket hanging on the wall. His boots that were much larger than any other shoes. Now both were dried from the snow. But he’s fingers itched to put them back on again. 

With the keyboard ready, it’s stupid stool under the board and Steve’s long legs folded up to sit at his. His skilled fingers poke and play at a quick secession of keys to get a feel for them. Making music out of the lightest of touches. 

“Any requests?” Steve breathed out easy. Gentle, just like how his fingers press into the fake ivory keys. 

“Do you know Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas?” Joyce stands right at his side, her hands clasped together over her heart, before she takes one off to grip around Jonathan’s bicep. 

The music starts up into a flare, the same chord played a few times over a Steve seemed to be getting used to the motion of his fingers. His eyes were on the keys the softest Billy had ever seen them. Softer than the pink apple of his cheeks as he blushed. Softer than the way it makes Billy feel to watch him. 

“I’m no Judy Garland,” he whispers out as the notes finally catches. As he finally takes them into the beginning of the song. 

Delicate soft little notes leading up to Steve’s voice, only as whisper as he starts to sing along. “Have yourself a merry little Christmas, let your heart be light. Next year all our troubles will be out of sight.” 

And he’s right, he doesn’t sound anything like Judy Garland. He sounds like Steve, controlled voice casted down into a vulnerable whisper. Billy’s breath catches in his throat as he listens. 

“Have yourself a merry little Christmas. Make the Yuletide gay. Next year all our troubles will be miles away.”

All around them the music seems to float, to fill the place up like snow clouds. Swirling and growing as Steve sways his head to the song. The lyrics vibrating through his chest. The bones of his fingers moving under that skin in perfect rhythm. 

Billy watches. His own hands twitching at his sides. Pathetic, and wanting, he squishes them into fists. 

“Once again as in olden days— happy golden days of yore. Faithful friends who were near to us, will be dear to us once more.”

Steve’s eyes flick up from the movement of the piano keys. They are honey in the artificial glow of the fireplace, honey in the way their stare tastes going down Billy’s throat. 

“Someday soon we all will be together  
If the fates allow,” Steve sings as if he knows what he saying. As if he ain’t just breaking hearts. 

“Until then, we'll have to muddle through somehow,” and he drags the word like a sled through the snow, like a spoon over the foam of a mug of hot chocolate. Like Indiana winter nights where the roads are too bad and you got nothing better to do than listen to the radio. And maybe, if you’re lucky, cuddle a pretty boy. 

Billy turns his face away. Reaches for his denim jacket handing on the rack and slides it on before the song is even over. 

“So have yourself a merry little Christmas now,” Steve sounds like royalty as he finishes the song. As his fingers press the last delicate notes. 

Billy’s stomping on his heavy boots, getting ready to rush outside. Away from it all. Away from the clapping and the praise. Away from the little family they created that really doesn’t have the space for him. 

He doesn’t hear the way Steve patters over in his socks, until his hand is pressing onto the middle of his back just as he had played the piano keys. 

“Hargrove—,” he starts talking. 

Billy cuts him off with one hand up in an angry point. The other lifting his pack of smokes out to show off he wants one. 

Steve gets it, nods back to him and only him before turning around to excuse them. Billy stands around and waits like an idiot while Steve steps into his own sneakers before they step outside together. 

Around them the snow is falling down. Still the same snow globe light falling, powder just barely making it down by gravity alone. But it’s been accumulating for hours now. Leaving the tires of the Camaro buried in the white shit. And Steve’s BMW is more of a glossy red in all the white than its typical burgundy color. 

He heads straight for it, a laugher in his voice that carries across the echo chamber of their snow globe night. 

Billy follows, his hands in his jacket pockets. Shouldn’t touch. 

The handle is cold on his hand as he opens the door only after Steve’s got his own unlocked and opened. 

When he starts the car his radio kicks to life. Left on when he turned it off to park. Billy’s stomach gives a kick at the intimacy of it, how he gets swept into some personal moment. Some local station’s announcer trailing off on some pre-recorded advertisement. Billy thinks he hears it’s about canned cranberry sauce, isn’t paying to much attention to anything that isn’t Harrington. 

“I told Nancy I was gonna quit,” Steve laughs, his lips already around the end of the smoke. 

He’s got a different brand than Billy, some minty girly thing that’s long between his pretty pink lips. Billy aches for his own Reds. Feels his fingers start to lift to his own jacket pocket to pull out his pack, but then Steve’s flicking his zippo closed. And he’s offering with an outstretched hand for Billy to take the next puff. 

They're sharing a smoke, huddled for warmth, in Steve’s car. Like two friends who do this on the regular, like two buddies who hadn’t had the most fucked up October of their lives. 

Billy takes the smoke gently almost next to the cherry so he doesn’t have to touch Steve’s hand. He puts it between his lips right as the radio starts playing an actual song. 

George Michael starts crooning on, harmonizing with the pop sounds of Wham! spilling out from Steve’s radio. His voice even turned down to a low volume manages to catch both their attention. As George begs for a kiss, talks about giving his heart away on Christmas, Billy groans in annoyance. Letting his head drop back on the car seat with a thud. 

“Wow, pretty boy, first freeze me to death then make me deaf?” Billy jokes. 

Steve rolls his eyes, he takes the smoke back as Billy offers it and the tips of their fingers brush together. 

“Don’t be too hard on yourself, Billy. Some people just wouldn’t know good music if it hit them over the head,” he says it with a low tone, cigarette shaft bouncing on his plump lips. One side turned up into a little smirk. 

Billy blushes up his neck and around his ears. Across his cheekbones and pooling on the center of his nose. He felt like Rudolph the damn red nose reindeer. He was happy it’s so cold outside, maybe it wasn’t noticeable. 

“Yeah, maybe Christmas music just ain’t it, huh?” Billy scoffs. 

Steve scoffs right back, passes the smoke back over as well. Billy reaches for it with eager fingers. 

“You seemed to enjoy the song I sang in there well enough,” Steve didn’t move back from how he leaned forward to pass the smoke. He kept his face turned towards Billy, let him watch his lips as the formed each word and his eyes glimmer as he lifted his brows micheviously. 

Taking the smoke between his lips, Billy keeps his hand cupped over his mouth as he takes a greedy drag. Sucking the smoke down until the tip burns so loudly he can hear it. Until the ash tumbles down over his knuckles. “You’ve got an allright voice, Harrington. Kinda sound like a girl—,”

“That so, huh?,” Steve laughed out, “a girl?”

Billy was fished dragging on the smoke, wasn’t finished hiding his face from Steve. He used his thumb to pet across his red tipped nose. Nodding along with what the other was saying. “Mm,” he hummed, “like some frilly, rainbow bird cawing about wanting to fuck.” 

That earned him a startled hiccup of a giggle, Steve lifted one hand to slap against the center of the arm rest. Right where the crook of Billy’s elbow laid. His fingertips were so close they could touch his denim jacket. If he stretched them. Pressing those warm fingers that can play the piano so damn well against the old denim wet with meted snow. Billy wished he would. And also, knew he wouldn’t know what to do with himself if he did. 

“Thank you, Billy,” Steve whispered lowly. 

The mood in the car changed as quickly as the song flicked into the next. Static feed back belting out another tune that wasn’t Wham!, but billy is beyond listening. 

He’s focused on the way Steve’s eyes look half closed. How they sparkle with the Christmas lights of the Byers house right before them. How his hair is still so damn puffy even when the snow flakes clutching to the ridiculous pompadour have all melted off. Still looks fluffy enough to run his fingers through. 

Billy clutches his fist that’s closest to Steve’s arm into a white knuckle hold. 

“I know that in your asshole sarcasm, that’s about as much of a complement as I’m gonna get.” Steve said it so lowly, leaned into the middle of the cab a little bit more. A little closer to Billy’s covered face. 

Billy finally poked the butt of the smoke into his lips, bit down on the filter hard enough to snap it through. It crumbled in his lips. Spilt more ash. 

Steve’s eyes flicked down to follow their fall before turning back to Billy’s face. 

“What the hell are you doing, Harrington?” He demanded. 

And at least Steve didn’t lie, or fake the way the mods changed. He didn’t try to cover up the way his eyes drop to half lids, and the way his tongue pokes out to lick across dry lips nervously. 

“Hargrove,” he started softly, cut it off just as soft. 

Steve juts himself forward, leans over the console even farther. So his cute sweater is all crushed up. Bunched up.

He reaches out his hand halfway towards Billy, the way it stutters and shakes must be from the cold. 

Billy looks down at him, his own face contouring into a frown as he watches Steve move around. Watches him reach out. “What the hell are you doing, Harrington?” He hisses out. 

When Steve’s hand lays across his cheek, Billy flinches. He jolts in his skin. Not from the cold, but from the way Steve’s hand feels so warm. His rich boy skin soft against his roughly stubble covered cheek. And when Billy flinches back, turns his head slightly as if to see the hand touching him, he catches how they smell like Christmas cookies. 

“Is this okay, Billy?” Steve asks. And it’s unfair how gentle he’s being treated when he doesn’t deserve it. “Tell me, I’ll stop. I just...,” Steve let’s his words drift off like his thumb drifts across Billy’s cheek. 

“Don’t stop,” Billy says it out loud. His voice a choke and a whisper to his cotton filled ears. 

Lips twitch back up into a smile, that’s what Billy likes to see on Steve’s face. If his words could contribute, could keep it there for as long as he can, then he’ll be a lucky guy. 

Steve Harrington looks so good when he’s smiling. And he’s so close, right next to Billy’s face and leaning even farther forward. Across the console of his preppy, rich boy car. He leans forward so close billy can smell the way his hair is a tangled mess of hairspray and cooking, glossy where he’s run his fingers through it in frustration over the stove. 

Billy’s eyes greedily take it all in. As much of Steve Harrington as he can. 

He feels dumb, sitting back and watching as Steve does all the damn work. As he leans over and cups those long, skilled fingers under his jaw like a damn Disney prince. 

Billy let his eyes flutter closed as he felt breath hit across his lips. 

Sugar cookies, and warmth in the cold of the snow around them. 

He surged forward, closing the last timid gap of space between their lips. Could still feel Steve smiling as he pressed those pretty boy bowed lips to Billy’s own. Felt their warm press, just as good as he had wished. Just as soft as he had prayed for. 

Steve’s hand tilted his chin to one side, slotting their lips together perfectly, Billy let his head move. Let out a pathetic needy noise as he became mailable under those perfect hands. 

They slide down his chin, to his neck, and seem to play piano notes against the scarf there. His touch on the gifted fabric sends jolts through Billy’s whole body. 

Makes him feel seen and wanted in a way he never had before. Never wanted to be ever again unless it was in this boy’s hands. 

They break off the kiss to pant open mouthed, pressing their foreheads together. 

Billy’s got to keep his eyes closed. Keep himself a little bit grounded. Or he’s going to float right on up to the top of this snow globe. 

“You mean that,” he hears himself asking, pleading, “tell me you really mean that.”

And he can feel Steve’s hair limp with melted snow press against his forhead as he nods. “Yeah, Billy. Been wanting to do that for a long time.” 

Billy’s chin is caught between a thumb and forefinger. Steve nudges into him to make him look up. Make him open his eyes and take it in. All the tenderness, all the love, all the family he was sure he wasn’t allowed to have. Wasn’t allowed to touch incase his ugly fingers messed it all up. 

Billy reaches out and touches Steve around his waist. Feels how narrow he is under that knitted sweater. Just as good as he had been imagining. And he can feel the way his stomach is jumping with each nervous breath he takes. 

“Merry Christmas,” Steve sings right into their next kiss.


End file.
